


I won't fall (unless you ask me to)

by jaesghost



Series: No apologies ever need be made (I know you better than you fake it) [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe – College/University, And thats a long ass ride, Boys Being Boys, Consensual Underage Sex, Developing Friendships, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Language, Heavy Angst, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Internalized Homophobia, Jaehyun is a Third Base Man, Johnny is a Pitcher, Jung Yoonoh | Jaehyun & Na Jaemin Are Siblings, Jung Yoonoh | Jaehyun & Suh Youngho | Johnny Are Best Friends, LGBTQ Characters, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Making Mixtapes, Minor Character Death, Religious Conflict, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, Suh Youngho | Johnny & Mark Lee Are Cousins, Suh Youngho | Johnny & Park Chanyeol Are Cousins, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, Underage Smoking, Yuta is a Center Fielder, because im a fucking sailor aparently, lots of swearing, no beta because we die like men, writing letters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:47:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23960986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaesghost/pseuds/jaesghost
Summary: Dear Spaceboy,I hope you don’t mind that I’m calling you that. It’s just easier than actually saying your name, or I guess in this case writing it. And don’t think that I’m calling you spacey or weird or whatever the fuck Billy Corgan meant when he wrote that song. You’re not weird, just different. And I mean that as a compliment.OrThe story of how Johnny Suh found Jaehyun, then lost him and then found him again.(Previously called Maybe This Time Is Different (I Really Think You Like Me) and Spaceboy (I miss you))
Relationships: Don't Want to Spoil the Good Shit, Jung Yoonoh | Jaehyun/Suh Youngho | Johnny, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Series: No apologies ever need be made (I know you better than you fake it) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2119539
Comments: 12
Kudos: 45





	1. dear spaceboy, i hope you don’t mind

**Author's Note:**

> twt: coltishpeach  
> cc: coltishpeach

Dear Spaceboy,

I hope you don’t mind that I’m calling you that. It’s just easier than actually saying your name, or I guess in this case writing it. And don’t think that I’m calling you spacey or weird or whatever the fuck Billy Corgan meant when he wrote that song. You’re not weird, just different. And I mean that as a compliment. 

You're probably wondering what a jagoff like me is hoping to get out of writing a letter to you. And if I‘m being completely honest, I don’t even know why I’m doing this. I guess it’s because it’s the only thing I can do. You were the only person in my life who listened—I mean truly listened to me. And not in the way that people listen when they ask you how you’re doing, but don’t actually expect any response other than “I’m okay.”

I’ve been saying that a lot lately: “I’m okay.” I mean I’ve been saying that my whole entire life, but I think this is the first time I’ve ever said it without really meaning it.

So I guess I’m writing this because—well—I need a friend. And you were always the only person I considered to truly fall into that category.

All of that aside, I just want you to know that I know that reading is equivalent to existing for you. So, If you ever read this, try to bear with me. This letter will never resemble anything that is as well-composed or methodical as any of the books you've ordered me to read.

We both know I'm not that articulate.

However, for someone who isn't good with words, there are surely a lot of them in my brain. They're fucking rattling around in there like all of the components in Gwen's shitty exhaust system. (I hope you appreciated that simile.) But the thing is, I’m good at fixing tangible things like my truck and my curveball. But when it comes to talking, I’m always at a loss. There are so many things that I wish I had the balls to say, but when the time comes they never come out of my mouth right. Hell, sometimes they don’t come out at all.

It’s like the opening lines in The Body: “The most important things are the hardest to say.”

My literary semantics aside, I keep thinking that if I had said something—anything—you might still be here. 

It was brutal, sitting there and watching you hurt—watching you be hurt. I could see it on your face, but I was too much of a pussy to ever say anything. 

I guess this is my way of making up for it. The art of pen and paper is more permissive than talking, so I’m just rolling with the punches.

I don’t know if your curious—you probably aren’t—but Selene hasn’t changed much since you left. 

Everyone here is still the same, at least at face value they are. We still go to church every Sunday. The Lees and the Delgatos still come over after. And me and Mark still go to the cages every Wednesday. If you didn’t read into it, you would think that nothing has changed.

But I can tell that it has changed. 

The kids at the CHAMPS aren’t as excited to see us as they used to be. Hazel doesn’t give me death glares when we’re forced to sit across from each other at the dining table. And my mom seems slightly more stressed everytime I walk into the kitchen to check on her.

After Mark and I, she definitely misses you the most.

The people whose lives you’ve touched are all the kind of people who would rather die than let anyone in this town know that something is wrong. But I don’t want you to think that we don’t care because we do. 

We all care so much, especially me.

I don’t know how to feel normal without you. I can’t remember going a day without seeing you. I don’t even remember much of my life before you. So when you left, it felt like a monumental part of myself left with you. 

It’s like the lyrics in that one Smashing Pumpkins song. It’s on your ork-rock mixtape, which is one of my favorites, by the way. I've been playing it on repeat. Mark is definitely sick of hearing it.

Honestly, I’d never really understood what you meant when you spoke about it before, but now I do. I can’t really verbalize the feeling—go fucking figure—but I can feel it in my beneath my ribcage. You can't change without losing a part of your past-self. You really can’t leave without leaving behind a piece of youth.

And unfortunately for me, you make up virtually all of my adolescence.

Shit, that sounded bad. 

I don’t want you to think that I’m mad at you. I don’t want to be mad, not anymore. Honestly, I don’t think I ever was. I think I was just sad, and getting angry was always easier than crying. 

When I first discovered that you'd left, I resented you. I tried to blame you for leaving on everything else than what it actually was. But it all faded out eventually. 

I had tried to visualize what my life would be like if I'd never met you. If I hadn't been determined to befriend the shrimpy kid—that sat unbothered in a dugout, and on tenterhooks on a church pew—what would my life look like right now? 

That was a rhetorical question, so don’t answer it because I already know. I figured that out not long after you left. 

I know for a fact that, in any alternative reality, there are only two things that I will always be; a ballplayer and stupidly in love with you.

There is no alternative fucking reality, or whatever, where I don’t meet you. Whether I’m twelve or twenty-five or almost in my grave, I know that I’d come across you at some point. It’s my inevitable thing; the one thing in my life that will happen no matter what decision I make. Because you were the only thing that made me feel normal--sane.

At least in this life, I got to know you the way that I did. I’m just sorry that it took losing you to come to my senses. 

I guess you really don’t know what you have until it’s gone. 

I’m sorry.

For everything.

And thank you.

For everything.

Love,

Johnny


	2. a hint of sacralige

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twt: coltishpeach  
> cc: coltishpeach

Unlike how it may seem, nothing great is created suddenly. At least, that’s what Johnny chose to believe.

God—or whoever-the-fuck is out there that’s getting a kick out of all this bullshit—hates freebies. So, he gets himself off on the buildup, depositing all of the tiny good deeds into piggy banks until they explode. And only then does he exchange the pennies for a crisp dollar bill.

It sounds cute, but the big man is a sick motherfucker.

Not everyone has the same piggy bank. You could go your whole entire life as a saint and still not see any pay off. 

God doesn’t believe in equality, only the luck of the draw.

Johnny never realized how lucky he was until he looked back on his childhood. He had a roof over his head, a bed to sleep in, and parents who loved him even if they had a funny way of showing it. 

But Johnny never appreciated it. If he’s being honest, he still doesn't. Sure, his life was far from perfect, but he got off way better than most. 

He wasn’t a good person, not in the grand scheme of things. He hadn’t decided to become one until it was too late. And yet, he somehow managed to convince the universe that he deserved Jung Jaehyun.

In all honesty, no kid could ever find enough change to buy such a life-changing thing: a best friend who you could tell all your secrets to. He could search beneath as many couch cushions as he so pleased. He could rack up years’ worth of allowance, but he’d never be able to match what Jaehyun was worth.

Johnny always said that if someone were to write a novel about his life, meeting Jaehyun--or Jae, as the Selene natives knew him because assimilation was easier than learning how to properly pronounce someone’s name--would be the inciting incident. And from there and in every moment afterward, he would be embedded into every single page. There was no way to erase those feelings. All of the memories—the good and the bad—were there to stay.

It started with him, and it would end with him.

And like most days where great things happened in life, this one started out like any other had before.

The year was 1989.

Johnny was 12-years-old, born to a mother who spent most of her time perusing through the pages of lecture plans and a father who dedicated his life to his unwavering faith.

His hometown was Selene, a vest-pocket in Bastrop County, Texas. 

It was an unobtrusive place, priding itself, solely, on a mass conglomeration of bible-thumpers and an all-state high school baseball team. You could drive through it and forget about it as soon as you crossed the city line. The only thing that signified that you had even passed through was the farewell signage: _Thank You for Visiting Selene, God Bless You and Come Back Soon!_

Nobody ever did, if they could help it.

That summer had been the driest and the hottest in history—even the Selene Tribune had said so. Johnny could tell by the way the sun seemed to peek through the trees as his mother steered their Ford Escort into the parking lot of Selene’s First—and only—Baptist Church, that today was going to be a blistering one. And on that fateful Sunday in September, a week before school started again, the road verge outside the church was ashen.

He could feel the heat underfoot the moment his second-hand dress-shoes made contact with the asphalt. He was already desperate to be inside the church. And not because he was excited to hear this morning’s sermon. He just wanted to feel the air conditioning on his skin.

It was a sticky sort of heat. The kind that made one irritable without much cause. The friction of Sunday clothes against damp skin was enough to make even the most tranquil soul flip the fucking script.

And unfortunately, Johnny’s aunt was as tranquil as a Charlie Chaplin film being played at warp speed.

He could hear Aunt Young-mi’s blubbering, ear-piercing and pitiful, before they even reached her. She stood near the entrance of the church, decked out in a bright pink ensemble and mascara tracks on her face. Johnny’s maternal Grandmother stood beside her, looking how he would remember her for the rest of her life: disgruntled and expensive.

He squints against the morning sun as his mother guides him across the parking lot with a gentle hand between his shoulder blades. The sound of the asphalt crunching beneath her heels is a comfort to Johnny. There is something in his gut, even at the ripe age of nine, that ensures him that she will always be there, leading him through life, even when she isn’t. She’s strong and beautiful, and probably the only woman that Johnny would ever use that descriptor for.

Johnny’s grandfather often joked that even Mr. Suh wasn’t up to her caliber—that most people actually came to the sermons for her—and everyone would laugh. But most jokes come from a small place of truth.

There wasn’t much secrecy when it came to his father’s character. You could tell exactly what type of man Mr. Suh was at first glance.

The man was a suburban tyrant surrounded by a fortress crafted entirely of steel. His kingdom—Selene’s First Baptist Church—and his castle—a two-story suburban on the corner of Hopkins and New Point —were entirely under his control. And the crucifix that dangled from his neck revealed his unwavering code of ethics that had moved many: Divinity and prosperity were absolute, and everything that came next was an afterthought.

“John-ah, you need to promise me that you’ll be on your best behavior today.” His mother’s words are stern, but they both know that they’re merely a formality. Johnny was always on his best behavior, at least on Sundays he was. Making any sort of wave during a sermon wasn’t even an option when Pastor Suh was your father. “I’m already going to have to deal with Young-mi today. God knows that woman is going to have a cow.”

Johnny could have seen the stress crinkles in his mother’s forehead from a mile away, so he tilts his head to the side, feigning child-like innocence. “Wait, Imo has a cow?”

The stress crinkles give way to a soft smile, and her head tilts back with soft laughter. Johnny feels the corner of his lips start to turn up, but he forces his brain to hold them down, in fear of giving away his true intentions.

“No, it’s a figure of speech,” his mother says, ruffling his hair. “Gosh, what would I do without you?”

“Have a cow?” His mother lets out a single cackle, before placing a hand over her mouth. She gives his hair one more tussle, making sure to right the strands immediately afterwards. The way she looks at him is reserved for Johnny and Johnny alone.

Johnny is too young to notice, but when he grows, he’ll come to realize that the sparkle in his mother’s eyes means so much more than he could ever imagine. She loves him, and to a kid that is nothing. It’s simply an intrinsic emotion that comes with being a mother.

He’s too young to understand how lucky he is. He’s too young to understand that not all moms love their children the way that Myoryon Suh loves him.

“Look who it is!” His mother’s voice startles him, but not long enough for him to miss who it’s directed towards. “Why don’t you go over there? I’m going to go deal with Young-mi.”

Johnny nods his head as if his mother was actually asking him, as opposed to telling him, to do so. 

“Young-mi, you can’t go in there like that.” Johnny hears his grandmother chastise in the distance. Aunt Young-mi lets out a pathetic wail, covering her mouth with a pale pink handkerchief. His grandmother’s face wrinkles in on itself. “Pull yourself together and fix your face before someone sees you.”

Johnny resists a look of disgust. Fixing seemed to be his Grandmother’s favorite thing to do.

“Should have figured that today would be a shit-show.” Johnny’s face immediately lights up when he catches sight of Chanyeol’s jocular grin.

Barely eighteen and perched—in a perfectly rumpled Sunday ensemble—against the rear of his Chevy Nova Twin-Cam, Park Chanyeol (Chan, to the normies, and Yeol, to the only people that mattered) was the object of affection for the mass majority of Selene’s female population. He was blessed with, what their Grandpa liked to call, the Park’s Golden Genetics: coltish with a hint of brawn that came with the closure of adolescence.

“You would be an idiot to think otherwise,” Johnny teases. Chanyeol tosses his head back in laughter.

You could tell that Chanyeol was a ballplayer—more specifically, a first baseman—just by looking at him. And come the start of his first semester, the boy would be fully settled into himself, losing the remainder of his youth and taking the collegiate baseball scene by storm.

Johnny had never idolized anyone more in his entire life. He was an only child, but he never felt like one growing up with Chanyeol.

“Shit, I’m going to miss you.” Johnny can practically feel his face scrunch up at Chanyeol’s words. A lump forms at the back of his throat. He had never been more vexed about having to say goodbye.

The days had been numbered and crossed off of his MLB All-Stars Calendar with dread. He knew that this would be the last Sunday, at least for a while, that he’d spend with the entirety of his family. Because once the Sunday sermon came to a close, his favorite person in the entirety of the world would pack away as much of his life as he possibly could into a Twin-Cam and drive off into new and unexplored territory.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Chanyeol sighs.

“You suck, hyung,” Johnny huffs. “You suck so bad.”

“You’ll be over it in about a week.” Johnny turns to face a familiar voice, higher and begging to be heard. It’s then that he spots a tuff of red hair, making its way around Chanyeol’s Twin-Cam with ease. “Long time no see, Tiny Yeol.”

It’s very important to note that wherever Chanyeol went, Baekhyun was sure to follow.

With a mouth that seemed to be miles ahead of his brain and a stark red, mullet-adjacent haircut, Byun Baekhyun was rebellious in every sense of the word. He was a wisp of a person, but his internal character couldn’t have been any larger. And in a tiny crevice of Johnny’s brain, completely under lock-and-key, he wished that he were brave enough to be half the person that Baekhyun was.

“What are you doing here,” Johnny spits. “I thought you didn’t believe in God.”

“Oh, and you do?”

“Of course I do.”

“Or you think that you do.”

“Baekhyun.” Chanyeol’s voice comes off as a warning to deaf ears. “Someone might hear you.”

“Let them, it’s not like they’re ever going to see me again.” Baekhyun waves his right hand around to further prove his point. And he means it too. Johnny doesn’t know this, but this is the last time he’ll see Baekhyun, at least, for a while. People like him—unique and radical—never stayed in Selene longer than they had to. “They all think that my overall existence is sacrilege anyway.”

Baekhyun pulls a pack of Marlboros from his pocket, and Chanyeol grabs them as quickly as he can.

“First of all, the only thing sacrilege about you is the fact that lighting up in a church parking lot seemed like a good idea to you.” Baekhyun lets out a whine as Chanyeol deposits the pack into his back pocket. “And I don’t need you to further that by making people think you’re trying to corrupt the preacher’s son.”

“You care to much about what other people think, Yeol.”

“So you’ve said,” Chanyeol gives Baekhyun a look that Johnny can’t place.

Many wondered how two boys, who were poles apart, could ever find a way to be acquaintances, let alone best friends. Most people wouldn’t try to befriend someone even a few inches out of the comfort of their social circle. But Chanyeol and Baekhyun weren’t most people.

Johnny was lucky enough to be present during their first encounter with each other.

Chanyeol had been on Johnny-sitting duty that day, which was less of a hassle for him than he pretended it was. Chanyeol was barely 12, and Johnny had just turned 6, when they took the Greyhound route from Selene to San Martin. Chanyeol had told him that they were on an adventure. But really Chanyeol just wanted to go to Cherrie’s Shack: the only music store in a 50-mile-radius that was worth talking about.

The place was a hole in the wall at best. The staff had tried their best to hide the aging wallpaper in as many band posters as possible and the floor was an ugly shade of green linoleum. The fluorescents flickered and the smell of cigarette smoke was embedded in the walls. But the music selection was what made it all worth it: walls upon walls of vinyl and displays filled with tapes and CDs that were begging to be listened to.

Chanyeol had been in a good mood that day, letting Johnny pick out a few tapes that he could play on the stereo his father kept in the garage. However, that wasn’t what made that day special. The scrawny Korean kid with charcoal rimmed eyes and a sly smile perusing the post-punk isle was the highlight.

From that day forward, Baekhyun was embedded in the pages of Chanyeol’s storybook, and in turn, Johnny’s as well.

“Are we gonna give it to him, or what?” Baekhyun gestures to a shoebox that is sitting atop the trunk of the Twin-Cam. Johnny’s interest is immediately piqued.

“Give what to me?” Chanyeol grabs the strange aforementioned box, extending it towards Johnny.

Most gifts were supposed to be treasured, but this one was so much more than that. Johnny didn’t know this, but a Dr. Martens shoe box—dented on one corner and covered in vinyl stickers from the small glass bowl that sat on the checkout counter at Cherrie’s Shack—would become the road map to both Johnny’s soul and his journey through the funhouse.

“I took the liberty of decorating it,” Baekhyun adds. Johnny takes note of the “Fuck the Police Sticker” on the lid, and he laughs.

“I can tell.”

Johnny holds the box in one hand, using the other to remove the lid. Inside he finds the strangest collection of gifts he’s ever seen: A dogeared copy of Different Seasons by Stephen King, a pack of Batteries, a Bruce and Clarence Keychain, and a mixed tape titled “Gag Me with a Spoon.”

But the most notable thing inside the box is a Sony WM-B52. Johnny’s eyes widen the moment he sees it. He feels like he is dreaming in color for the first time. The fluorescent yellow of the device slaps him in the face with how loud it is. He traces his finger over every inch of the device: the buttons, the dual headphone jack, the “P.C.Y.” etched in sharpie along the side. Johnny remembers begging his mother for one just like it with little success.

“You’re giving me your Walkman,” Johnny asks in disbelief.

“Consider it an apology for not being able to drive you to school anymore,” Chanyeol says. “Bus rides are a bitch.”

Johnny grabs the mixtape, letting out a groan when he takes note of the tracklist. Glam rock was arguably a terrible choice. But when it came to Chanyeol and Baekhyun, there wasn’t much more to expect. At least it would separate Johnny from the other seventh-graders that would definitely be talking about things that seventh-graders should not be talking about.

“Twisted Sister, really?”

“You’re complaining now, but these bad boys will save your life,” Baekhyun justifies.

“No, no. Men in makeup and tights do not save lives. Glam Rock does not save lives, Hyung.”

“Oh no Yeol, I think we're too late.” Baekhyun gasps, feigning trepidation. He grabs Johnny’s face, squishing his cheeks until his lips are forced to pucker. “He’s already turning into one of them. I can already see the jockstrap melding with his skin.”

“Cannot,” Johnny whines, shoving the elder away. “Baseball players don’t wear Jock Straps.”

“I mean cups are technically-”

“Fuck technicalities.” Chanyeol’s eyes go wide at Johnny’s words. “Don’t be a hypocrite, Yeol-Hyung. You're literally leaving to play baseball.”

“Alright, alright,” Baekhyun simmers and his mischievous smile softens into something else. “I’m gonna miss you, kiddo.”

Johnny is about to produce mock gaging sounds when the church bell signals that the sermon is about to start. Baekhyun looks up into the sky as if it offended him.

“Always a buzz-kill. Aren’t you, big guy?”

Chanyeol tries to hide his smile. Baekhyun ruffles Johnny’s hair.

“You should probably keep the box in your car,” Baekhyun says. “Bringing the devils music in there would be-”

“Sacrilege,” Johnny asks.

Chanyeol tosses his head back in laughter. 

“Yeah, something like that.” 


	3. dear spaceboy, did you know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twt: coltishpeach  
> cc: coltishpeach

_July 1995_

Dear Spaceboy,

Did you know that I hated you when we first met?

Well, hate probably wouldn't be the right choice of word. I guess I just didn't like the idea of you. 

The thought of being friends with someone so different than me--someone who, from the very start, challenged everything that I thought was true--wasn't something that I was prepared for. And we both know, that when something doesn't go my way, I don't have the best track record for being civil.

So, I wanted to say that I'm sorry for being an asshole to you from the very start. And I'm especially sorry for making fun of your shoes--you know the red ones that you'd tie in the back instead of the front. They weren't lame. I actually thought they were pretty cool.

You were pretty cool. Even though you were an asshole to me too, but that was definitely my fault.

I was just so used to being around people who weren't so combative. Hell, you said it yourself back then. You called me a "big fat pussy" that one time I cried because Kyle Sanderson--the fucking prick--got to pitch during the first scrimmage for the Argos. I'm not used to things not going my way. 

I've grown accustomed, though. 

I said somethings that I shouldn't have the other day. Or maybe I should have said them, I just waited too long to do so. But it didn't end well.

Long story short, my family knows now. They know everything. And I'm still trying to figure out how to cope with that. 

I feel like a ghost in my own home. Like I could disappear without a word, and nobody would notice.

Is that how you felt before you left? 

My parents aren't speaking to me. My grandmother refuses to come over anymore. And my mom cries every time she so much as glances in my direction. Mark is the only person that still comes around.

But he's been away on some summer trip from school, so I've just been doing my own thing.

It's lonely.

I'm so fucking lonely, Jae.

I never realized how much I relied on other people until now. I thought I could be fine on my own, but I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong. 

I thrived off of being the guy that everyone in this town wanted me to be. It made me feel like I was wanted. I hate not feeling wanted. 

I'm no longer the golden boy. I'm no longer Johnny Suh: varsity captain and a proud preacher's son. I'm just Johnny: a friendless ghost, living his life on autopilot.

But maybe that's for the best. I'm going off to college in a few months, and I don't think I'm ever coming back to Selene. So maybe it's best that they pretend that I don't exist. It'll make the adjustment period of my departure a lot easier for everyone. I know my dad will have a hard time trying to justify, to the people around here, why I don't come around anymore. But I'm not so sure that I care. 

It's way easier to play the villain than the hero right now. I'm just doing what I do best, I guess: worrying about myself now and nobody later. It's worked out for the most part.

I just wish I could hear your voice. I know I probably don't deserve that, but it always made me feel better. 

When the guys on the team got a little too loud, or Hazel wouldn't stop talking about all the shit she usually talked about--when I couldn't seem to ever pull my head out of my own ass--you were always the one who brought me back down to earth. Talking to you was as easy as breathing. I didn't have to think about what I said. I didn't have to hold back or pretend to be something that I'm not.

I could just be me.

And I wish I could have done the same thing for you. I really wish that I could have been as good of a friend to you as you were to me. I wish I could be so much more than what I ever was. 

I wish God gave second chances. Because there is so much that I would want to change. 

But for now, I guess all I can say is that I hope you're doing okay.

I hope you're happy where you are.

And I hope that you don't think about me too much.

Sincerely,   
Johnny

P.S. I forgot to mention in my last letter that I got a job. I'm starting next week. So I'll let you know how that goes, I guess.


End file.
